What Am I Going to Do with my Life?
by Evilyna
Summary: A socially isolated former child star's life takes an interesting turn when he somehow ends up touring with the bankrupt Gorillaz (minus 2-D). Pre-Plastic Beach (early days), OC, comedy-drama, no pairings. Rated T for language, suggestive themes and general crudeness. Disclaimer: I do not own 2-D, Murdoc Niccals, Russell Hobbs, Noodle or any of the greatness that is Gorillaz.
1. Chapter 1: The Advert of Destiny

_Scrap, scrape, scrape._

I absent-mindedly scuff my shoes on the gravel as I walk down the pavement (a habit I really need to get out of), the sounds of a ridiculously obscure psytrance band filling my ears. I can't remember who they are: I lost my auditory awareness when I walked past Tesco's, as per usual. I'm too busy thinking to worry about which music I'm listening to. It's just standard walking-home-from-school fare, really: the usual gremlins reminding me how awful the album I did with Lenka was, how many times I fluffed my line in the biscuit advert, how all the girls who fawned at my feet years ago don't give a damn about me now, etc, etc, etc- with a couple of nagging homework reminders thrown in on the side. Nothing worth writing about.

But then something completely alien comes along. Something I've barely ever thought about in my life.

_Alexei, what are you going to be when you grow up?_

Crap, I just failed my final exam. At fifteen years old I still have no idea what I'm going to do with my life.

It was easy back when I was a wide-eyed preteen star. I had it all laid out in front of me on a silver platter brought by a butler wearing a waistcoat and tie in a ten-hectare mansion in an idyllic part of southern England. I was going to flourish in my dance lessons, win a national title, do a solo album, appear in a TV show and eventually land an acting/singing career. That wasn't what _I_ really wanted to do- that was what my dance teacher, my laughably superficial "fans" and the interviewer who asked me wanted me to do- but you don't get to do what you want when you're a starlet. You either pander to the whims of whoever has decided that they will be in charge of your career, or you don't do anything at all.

My sisters, Lenka and Mariya, got to keep their platters, and as far as I am aware they are now skipping around in Fame Land, but my platter was cruelly snatched away at the last minute when I said something stupid and the producers made it look like I was being sulky while the teacher was telling me off. Since my career is pretty much over, I'm now going to have to find a different path now I've fallen into obscurity. I've got no connections, no ambitions and no parents. I stopped caring about school a while ago because it didn't seem to make sense to put so much effort into it when the rest of my life was so crap, so I'm probably going to fail my GCSEs, and performing arts won't work anymore, what with my current situation. It seems like my only option is writing, which won't pay; I surmise from this that I am pretty much screwed. I don't think it would make much difference to the world if I hung myself in my bedroom tonight.

Go away. Go away. GO AWAY.

My pervasive suicidal thoughts are interrupted when I feel the familiar shape of a lamppost meet my forehead. Great. Now I'm going to have to explain the bruise when I get back to Hysteria House.

I take my earphones out and survey my surroundings. I am standing outside a small, scruffy-looking newsagent's that I have never seen in my entire life: I've been heading in entirely the wrong direction. A dilapidated headline board stands pathetically in the corner, wheezing out a headline with all the strength it can muster: GORILLAZ BANKRUPT TWO WEEKS BEFORE TOUR. Who are they again? I'm pretty sure I've heard the name somewhere, but they don't sound like the sort of thing I usually listen to.

I feel a current-affairs craving coming on. Ignoring the time and the impending lecture from the Hysteria House staff, I stroll into the newsagent's, a typical suburban joint with a dangly chain door that's seen better days and stacks of lads' magazines festering on racks in the corner. The guy at the counter looks me up and down (checking if I'm a comprehensive-school yob who's about to invade the cigarette and sweet stocks, I presume) and then promptly goes back to reading _The Sun. _I pick up a random broadsheet and flick through the sombre headlines- "'I KILLED MY OWN BABY', SOBS DEFENDANT", "LEGAL AID CUTS RISE TO £1M" and such like- before searching the messages in the back pages. It's mostly clichéd bereavement messages and adverts for crappy cars, but after sifting through the piles of rubbish I find a single gem: "Male vocalist wanted for alternative hip-hop band. Ages 15+ welcome. Tenor-baritone vocal range preferred; some skill in keyboard playing would be nice. Possible success. First come first served: dire situation…"

I stab the contact number into my phone, throw the newspaper back onto the rack and sprint out of the shop and onto the pavement. This is an opportunity I can't miss: I need to validate my life RIGHT NOW. "Possible success" could mean anything, couldn't it: we could end up with a record deal! Yes! I can finally put my otherwise useless skills to good use!

I've been taken singing lessons ever since I was forced to record a dreadful teen pop album with my sisters at the age of ten (it was a complete flop, in case you were wondering), but I started concentrating on it much more when I arrived at Hysteria House and had nothing else to do. My teacher seems to think I'm pretty good, and my voice didn't have to be AutoTuned out completely when I did the album, so I think I stand a decent chance. I don't know what kind of voice you need to have for alternative hip-hop, though (I was trained in pop), and I've never really been told what my vocal range is. Sod that, though: it's worth a try.

"Hello, this is the front desk at Kong Studios speaking," says a tired, resigned-sounding voice with a stereotypical New York accent. "How may I help you?"

"Um…" My knowledge of English goes out of the widow for a brief moment. "I saw an…advert for a male vocalist in a…a…newspaper, and this is the number it said I had to ring. What am I supposed to…well…do?"

"Oh, that's great!" The voice suddenly sounds elated. "You're the first candidate we've had. Listen, do you think you could pop over for a quick audition? The address is on the advert."

"Yeah, sure…" I mumble. "Uh…when, exactly?"

"Well, how about now?"

Without thinking, I say "Yeah, that's fine. I'll get the train." Then I hang up.

Right. Excuse time. I scroll through my contacts list at breakneck speed, find Mark Voronov and wait for him to answer.

Mark, my older brother by one year, has been my confidante ever since we came to Hysteria House. He's pretty much the only member of my family with whom I can spend more than five minutes without retching, and we have a lot in common. We used to go to dance together sometimes, but he quit so he could play more football, so at least his eyes don't completely glaze over when I talk about _ronds-des-jambes_ and front walkovers.

"_Lyosha_?" he says, using my Russian nickname as usual. My siblings and I almost always speak in Russian together, so we're all essentially bilingual, though my English spelling is still pretty shaky.

"_Privet, Marik_," I say hurriedly. "I just wanted to let you know that I have extra dance practice tonight. Could you tell Jane and Bob?"

"Um…OK. Is that a lie?"

I sigh. Mark always knows when I'm lying. "Yes. I'm auditioning for a band, but I don't want anyone to think I'm mixing with a bad crowd. Just use my excuse, OK?"

"Fine. But could you do one thing for me, Lyosha? Promise me you won't start messing around with drugs like Gosha did, or you'll never be able to go back to Russia with us again."

"OK, I won't," I laugh. "Thanks, Marik. _Poka!"_ I hang up before he can say anything.

There's no time to waste. I stuff my phone into my bag and began to run in the direction of the station. No matter how tough it is to resist the temptation, I know I won't be looking back.


	2. AN1

**A/N (I know it should have been at the end of the chapter but I don't want to change the document).**

**Thank you for giving up your time to read this fanfic. Sorry about the slow start: I need to get Alexei's past sorted before the real fun begins. This was meant to be a writing exercise to see if I could actually finish something, but I'm starting to enjoy it a lot more than I thought I would. I would appreciate constructive criticism, so reviews are welcome.**


End file.
